


Long Hard Road Out of Hell

by claudia6913



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-19
Updated: 2008-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 11:49:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 18,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia6913/pseuds/claudia6913
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angel comes back from hell.  This is a response to Gabrielle’s ‘Willow/Angel Challenge’ on NHA Forums.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Velvetwhip (Gabrielle)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gabrielle/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I unfortunately do not own the characters. Those are owned by Joss and Co. I seek no profit from the use of anything here.  
> Author’s Notes: The title was taken from the song ‘Long Hard Road Out of Hell’ by Marilyn Manson from the ‘Spawn’ soundtrack.

**Prologue**

Empty hallways echo the silence of the night. Small animals scurry along the floor, and insects crawl on the walls. The soft night air blows the dust in swirls, making shadows twist and turn. The abandoned mansion stands like a stone monolith, telling of hard times, and broken hearts. If these walls could, they would bleed red and cry unspent tears. They would tell of lover’s quarrels, of blood spilled and drying in the cracks of the tile.

Yet, time waits for no one. It doesn't wait for the small, powerful blonde that visits the abandoned home every night, crying for a lost love. It doesn't wait for the beautiful red-head that sits in front of the empty fireplace during the day, contemplating the loss of a friend. Nor does time wait for the dark-haired creature of the evening that died one fateful night at the hands of the blonde.

Clouds race along the horizon, making their way quickly to form over the mansion. Threatening noises roll through the air, promising a storm. The wind picks up heavy and blowing, tossing leaves into the empty house. What draperies that are left at the windows are whipping around as the wind picks up speed. Flashes of lightning light up the night air and silhouette the black stone in the lighted sky. Heavy rain drops beat on the old roof and stream through the broken windows. 

One stray bolt of lightning hits the mansion, illuminating it from the inside out. No one is there but the house itself to witness the vortex that opens several feet above the floor. The swirling black hole blows stagnant and decayed air into this world. Screams can be heard coming from it, pain evident in the many voices. Soon a man, no a demon, naked, wet, and cold falls down to the stones.

The vampire lays unconscious and shaking. No one is there to welcome his return. Not even the mice come to sniff at him. They know what he is. The vortex closes with a loud snap, and with it the storm stops and the clouds evaporate back into the ether. That is all that heralds his return, the retreating of everything.

This is the first night the blonde has not come to visit the place she pierced her lover’s heart. If she were to come, she would find him here where she wanted him most for those long, lonely months. She stayed away because of the storm. Maybe in the morning the red-head will come to visit and find him, but for now he is cold and alone.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

By some unknown force, the vortex that had expelled Angel had dropped him in the only shaded area of the immense living room. The draperies, which only hours ago had whipped about in the fury of the wind, lie motionless, obscuring what they can of the windows. He lies coiled in the small, shaded area, unconsciously aware of his boundaries. The demon inside of him recognizes the light as a threat. Nightmares wrack his mind, forcing cries of remembered pain from him.

\----------

Willow has been up half the night, crying. Her eyes are swollen and red-rimmed as she looks in her mirror, the evidence of her sorrow making dirty streaks on her face where tears had once been. Wiping angrily at her face, she bends to clean off the dirt, not wanting to look in the mirror. The previous night’s conversation runs through her head, one phrase sticking with her. “It worked, Willow. Your spell worked.”

Fresh tears come to the surface. ‘He went to hell,’ Willow thinks. ‘He went to hell with his soul. All because of me!’ She really had no way of knowing, yet she blames herself all the more. No one could have predicted this outcome, least of all Willow. Questions race through her mind. Had she done the spell in time for Angel to be saved, or had it been too late? Did Xander give Buffy her message? Did Angel know what was going on? Too many questions and none of them leading to answers Willow wants to contemplate.

Nothing can make Willow go to school today. She is already an hour late and school is the furthest thing from her mind. Willow runs a bath, something relaxing to help soothe her torrent of emotions. Slipping into the scented water she contemplates heading over to the mansion. There is something about sitting in front of the massive stone fireplace that makes her feel closer to Angel. 

\----------

The walk up to the mansion is made without her having to think of where she is going. It is a path well-traveled by her feet, and they know the way. The sun shines high and bright in the sky, yet it doesn’t quite reach the entire shaded, stone house. The shadows sway and move with the trees, showing broken windows and stone. The aloofness of the house is apparent to Willow, today more then any other time she has come. 

Willow stops at the stairs leading up to the broken front door, still bathed in the warm light of day. Bracing herself, she walks in. Today she knows the true story behind Angel’s death and she’s coming to face her part in it. Willow knows she contributed, no matter what Giles, Buffy, or Xander say. If only she had done better, if only she hadn’t been interrupted and knocked unconscious. So many ifs and not a one of them make a difference now. Taking a deep breath she walks through the broken doors.

“Angel?” her whispered voice asks, echoing through the bare room. Well, bare except for the naked vampire lying in a shadowed circle in the middle of the room. Willow is rooted to the spot, her mind racing. ‘How?’ she asks herself. So many possibilities make their way across her mind. ‘Did someone bring him back? Does anyone else know? How did he get here, and from where?’ 

The still form of Angel quivers in his unconscious state, startling Willow and making her gasp. Watching him closely she notices his muscles twitching and straining. Finally, she comes to the realization that he is naked and she is staring. Blushing, she looks away. After a few minutes she looks back at him and notices fading bruises and cuts all over his body.

Only one thing registers in Willow’s head at that moment…he is in need, and she wants to help him. Without thinking she runs out of the house and heads straight to Willy’s. The fact that she is _purposely_ running into a demon bar is not lost on her. Angel needs blood however, and this is the only place she knows that supply’s it without question. 

“Need…blood,” Willow asks, gasping for air. 

Willy looks at her suspiciously then says, “You look like you’re human.”

“Not…for…me.”

“Sorry little girl. Paying customers only. How else is a guy supposed to make a living,” he says, turning to service another person.

“Look, I can pay alright?” Willow gasps, placing some money on the counter. “Give me whatever that covers.”

Willy quickly grabs the money from the counter and heads into the back to retrieve the blood. Willow had given him money enough for ten bags, but being the creep that he is he only grabs seven, bringing them back in a brown sack.

“Here ya go. Enjoy,” Willy says, going back to business.

Willow snatches the bag off the counter without saying anything. Taking off at full speed she runs to her house. First things first, she puts the blood in a cooler along with some ice. Then she grabs a blanket and heads back to the mansion. As she nears it, Willow slows her pace. Doubt crosses her mind. She isn’t sure if she saw what she thought she saw, and doesn’t want to walk in there and not see him. Now, more then ever, she _needs_ Angel to be in there, and not still in Hell. With hopes that she wasn’t hallucinating, Willow steps into the house.

She exhales a breath that she didn’t know she was holding. Angel is still here, though in a slightly different position. The sound of mumbling and the stirring of small animals are the only sounds in the vast open area. 

Walking over to the wooden bench, that until recently had been her seat day after day, she sets down the cooler full of blood. A blush creeps up her face as she turns and looks at Angel’s naked form. Quickly unfolding the blanket she steps closer and covers him. He jumps slightly at the contact of something, but in his current state he can do nothing about it.

Feeling somewhat better, Willow sits on the bench, facing Angel instead of the empty fireplace for once. ‘Things happen for a reason,’ Willow thinks. ‘So, why and how has Angel come back?’


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The daylight dims, unbeknownst to the occupants of this room. Shadows grow, casting a darkness that creeps up the floor closer to where Willow is sitting. Minutes turn into hours; the only thing keeping time is the steady beating of Willow’s heart, though she herself is oblivious to the passage of time. The only thing holding her attention is the creature in front of her. Willow watches the bruises fade and the cuts heal.

It is, at last, nightfall and Willow is suddenly aware of it. She knows Buffy comes here at night to do the same thing she has been doing by day. Looking around Willow doesn’t know what to do. 

A slight rustle of leaves tells her someone is outside, and by the growls coming from Angel, she assumes, rightly, that it is Buffy. Willow jumps slightly when she feels Angel grab at her ankle unconsciously. She stands there indecisive for a few moments. ‘He doesn’t want to see her,’ she thinks. ‘Why would he after all? But then why would he seek my help?’

The torpid vampire on the floor will not wait for Willow to comprehend what his body is telling him. It is yelling ‘danger’ and his only means of escape will not take him away. By some unknown force the vampire starts to drag the girl to a darkened corner, shielding from all but the most determined view. She understands and grabs the cooler with blood, making sure the blanket stays on Angel as they slowly make their way to the corner. Willow crouches down and Angel curls around her, his eyes still closed. She unthinkingly strokes his hair, trying to calm the shudders that wrack his body. 

From the corner they see a female silhouetted in the doorway. There’s no mistaking who it is…Buffy. Willow inhales sharply when she feels Angel’s face shift under her hands. She feels the soft rumble of a growl more then she actually hears it, but her fear makes it deafening in the silence.

Willow has her eyes trained on the shadowy figure of her best friend. She watches in silent alarm as Buffy makes her way slowly across the threshold to stand in the middle of the living room, facing the fireplace. Buffy doesn’t look around, she doesn’t look anywhere but right in front of her. Her eyes are seeing something that is no longer there. 

In her fear, Willow is sure that Buffy will see them. Her short breaths echo in her ears and the growls coming from Angel are reverberating in her head. ‘I should tell her we are here,’ Willow thinks. ‘Buffy will know what to do. But, Angel doesn’t want to see her it seems. Oh, what am I going to do?’ She looks between the vampire that is clinging to her and her best friend. Making a decision she makes to stand, only to be caught by Angel. He grips her waist with almost bone crushing strength making Willow nearly gasp in pain before she claps her hand over her mouth and sinks back down in the corner.

Willow is starting to physically feel the passage of time as her legs go numb from her position. ‘How long does Buffy plan to stay here?’ she asks herself. Angel appears to have gone back into his stupor, his body still as death. The only thing that lets Willow know he is truly here is the grip he still has on her waist. 

Finally, after what seems like hours to Willow, Buffy turns to leave. As she is walking away Willow lets out a soft sigh of relief. However that relief is cut short when Buffy stills mid-step. Panic runs through Willow at the thought of being caught. ‘Oh no, not now,’ she thinks. The low menacing growl that comes from Angel makes Willow jump. Her nerves are frayed. She is in pure panic mode and doesn’t hear the loud rustling just outside the mansion, but Buffy does and runs to meet it head on.

By the time Willow calms and notices Buffy is gone, she hears the banter between Buffy and her adversary. ‘Figures,’ Willow thinks. ‘They can’t just leave well enough alone.’ Standing up, Willow stretches her tight muscles and groans as tiny pin pricks make their way along her legs. Angel, content where he is, just lays there unmoving. The threat gone, he now goes back to his unconscious state.

Limping from staying in one position for so long, Willow slowly makes her way to a tattered chair and falls into it. “What am I going to do with you?” she asks looking over at Angel. Upon receiving no answer she looks back over to the fireplace. Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Willow knows she has to think of something. She can’t just leave him here. 

“Oh no,” Willow says jumping up. “I bought that blood and didn’t even think to feed you. Some caretaker I’m turning out to be.” It feels good to Willow to actually talk out loud. It helps make Angel's presence feel real to her and assuages her fear that his presence is merely a figment of her imagination and that he's still lost in the hell dimension. 

“Now, let’s see if we can get you to eat. I’m sure you’ve got to be hungry. I don’t know if they actually fed you…there,” she says. Babbling has always been a comfort to her, and now she uses it to ease not only her nerves but hopefully Angel’s as well. She walks slowly over to the corner where the cooler is sitting and opens it.

“I don’t have a knife, but I’m sure you can open it for yourself. I mean, it’s not like your fangs are just there for decoration, right?” She grabs a bag of blood and looks at it. “AB negative. I hope you like it. I thought he would have given me pigs blood, but this will do for now.”

Crouching down she sets the blood in front of Angel’s face and backs away quickly. Willow’s only ever seen a vampire feed once, and that was on a living person. She knows what Angel is, but it is easy to forget when you don’t see him in game face or feeding. To her he was her friend with a slight aversion to sunlight. Now, it hits a little closer to home. Angel is a vampire, a creature that drinks blood, and has killed hundreds.

Sniffing loudly, Angel lifts his head, his eyes open and trained on the small girl slowly backing away from him. Her fear is overwhelming his senses. She smells like food and he is hungry. Nothing else registers in his addled mind. Basic instincts have taken over. He lunges for her.

“Angel!” Willow cries as she is knocked over by the vampire. His fangs glisten in the moonlight and his yellow eyes bore into her. She closes her eyes and whispers, “Please…no.”


	4. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

The daylight dims, unbeknownst to the occupants of this room. Shadows grow, casting a darkness that creeps up the floor closer to where Willow is sitting. Minutes turn into hours; the only thing keeping time is the steady beating of Willow’s heart, though she herself is oblivious to the passage of time. The only thing holding her attention is the creature in front of her. Willow watches the bruises fade and the cuts heal.

It is, at last, nightfall and Willow is suddenly aware of it. She knows Buffy comes here at night to do the same thing she has been doing by day. Looking around Willow doesn’t know what to do. 

A slight rustle of leaves tells her someone is outside, and by the growls coming from Angel, she assumes, rightly, that it is Buffy. Willow jumps slightly when she feels Angel grab at her ankle unconsciously. She stands there indecisive for a few moments. ‘He doesn’t want to see her,’ she thinks. ‘Why would he after all? But then why would he seek my help?’

The torpid vampire on the floor will not wait for Willow to comprehend what his body is telling him. It is yelling ‘danger’ and his only means of escape will not take him away. By some unknown force the vampire starts to drag the girl to a darkened corner, shielding from all but the most determined view. She understands and grabs the cooler with blood, making sure the blanket stays on Angel as they slowly make their way to the corner. Willow crouches down and Angel curls around her, his eyes still closed. She unthinkingly strokes his hair, trying to calm the shudders that wrack his body. 

From the corner they see a female silhouetted in the doorway. There’s no mistaking who it is…Buffy. Willow inhales sharply when she feels Angel’s face shift under her hands. She feels the soft rumble of a growl more then she actually hears it, but her fear makes it deafening in the silence.

Willow has her eyes trained on the shadowy figure of her best friend. She watches in silent alarm as Buffy makes her way slowly across the threshold to stand in the middle of the living room, facing the fireplace. Buffy doesn’t look around, she doesn’t look anywhere but right in front of her. Her eyes are seeing something that is no longer there. 

In her fear, Willow is sure that Buffy will see them. Her short breaths echo in her ears and the growls coming from Angel are reverberating in her head. ‘I should tell her we are here,’ Willow thinks. ‘Buffy will know what to do. But, Angel doesn’t want to see her it seems. Oh, what am I going to do?’ She looks between the vampire that is clinging to her and her best friend. Making a decision she makes to stand, only to be caught by Angel. He grips her waist with almost bone crushing strength making Willow nearly gasp in pain before she claps her hand over her mouth and sinks back down in the corner.

Willow is starting to physically feel the passage of time as her legs go numb from her position. ‘How long does Buffy plan to stay here?’ she asks herself. Angel appears to have gone back into his stupor, his body still as death. The only thing that lets Willow know he is truly here is the grip he still has on her waist. 

Finally, after what seems like hours to Willow, Buffy turns to leave. As she is walking away Willow lets out a soft sigh of relief. However that relief is cut short when Buffy stills mid-step. Panic runs through Willow at the thought of being caught. ‘Oh no, not now,’ she thinks. The low menacing growl that comes from Angel makes Willow jump. Her nerves are frayed. She is in pure panic mode and doesn’t hear the loud rustling just outside the mansion, but Buffy does and runs to meet it head on.

By the time Willow calms and notices Buffy is gone, she hears the banter between Buffy and her adversary. ‘Figures,’ Willow thinks. ‘They can’t just leave well enough alone.’ Standing up, Willow stretches her tight muscles and groans as tiny pin pricks make their way along her legs. Angel, content where he is, just lays there unmoving. The threat gone, he now goes back to his unconscious state.

Limping from staying in one position for so long, Willow slowly makes her way to a tattered chair and falls into it. “What am I going to do with you?” she asks looking over at Angel. Upon receiving no answer she looks back over to the fireplace. Rubbing her eyes tiredly, Willow knows she has to think of something. She can’t just leave him here. 

“Oh no,” Willow says jumping up. “I bought that blood and didn’t even think to feed you. Some caretaker I’m turning out to be.” It feels good to Willow to actually talk out loud. It helps make Angel's presence feel real to her and assuages her fear that his presence is merely a figment of her imagination and that he's still lost in the hell dimension. 

“Now, let’s see if we can get you to eat. I’m sure you’ve got to be hungry. I don’t know if they actually fed you…there,” she says. Babbling has always been a comfort to her, and now she uses it to ease not only her nerves but hopefully Angel’s as well. She walks slowly over to the corner where the cooler is sitting and opens it.

“I don’t have a knife, but I’m sure you can open it for yourself. I mean, it’s not like your fangs are just there for decoration, right?” She grabs a bag of blood and looks at it. “AB negative. I hope you like it. I thought he would have given me pigs blood, but this will do for now.”

Crouching down she sets the blood in front of Angel’s face and backs away quickly. Willow’s only ever seen a vampire feed once, and that was on a living person. She knows what Angel is, but it is easy to forget when you don’t see him in game face or feeding. To her he was her friend with a slight aversion to sunlight. Now, it hits a little closer to home. Angel is a vampire, a creature that drinks blood, and has killed hundreds.

Sniffing loudly, Angel lifts his head, his eyes open and trained on the small girl slowly backing away from him. Her fear is overwhelming his senses. She smells like food and he is hungry. Nothing else registers in his addled mind. Basic instincts have taken over. He lunges for her.

“Angel!” Willow cries as she is knocked over by the vampire. His fangs glisten in the moonlight and his yellow eyes bore into her. She closes her eyes and whispers, “Please…no.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Angel is walking around the mansion, exploring. Willow sits down and watches him. She has, for the moment, gotten over the fact that he is naked and examines him appreciatively. The muscles and sinew of his form are moving in an almost elegant dance along the length of his back as he reaches up above the mantle. His long, taut leg muscles stretch, showing the perfect lines of his body. Only the faintest of scars still show on the broad expanse of his back, making Willow wince slightly at the thought of the pain he has been through these past few months.

Yawning, Willow relaxes and closes her eyes for a minute. She is tired and the night has been a trying one. Her nerves are still frayed from the almost-encounter with Buffy and from almost becoming Angel’s dinner. There have been too many such _almosts_ in the last year or two for Willow’s comfort. 

Her eyes are having a hard time staying open. Angel can hear the faint slowing of the girl’s heartbeat that signals the onset of sleep. He knows her…somehow. Everything is still jumbled and broken. The pieces are slowly fitting together though. 

The last thing he remembers is hell, the stench of it, the cries for mercy…his cries for mercy. His ears still register the faint crack of a whip, leaving him flinching at the sound as if it is real. Right now however, the whip is more real to him then any of this…the mansion and the girl. Even the blood somehow didn’t seem right. The taste of it died on his tongue before he had a chance to savor it. It had seemed thick and cold…much too cold.

It has been centuries since he last fed. Angel had lost track of just how long ago. He lost count when he lost his mind. He’s seen red for years. Nothing but red. The color of blood, the color of the girl’s hair, his blood…everything became tinged in the crimson color of his nourishment. Now it’s as though he is looking at everything around him in a funhouse mirror, changing and distorting his view of things, as if he sees some hell’s eye view of Picasso’s world. Unrecognizable shapes and sounds meshing together in an unnatural way. The room and its contents are almost garish in their oddness to him.

The soft whimper from Willow catches Angel off guard and makes him spin quickly around, ready to attack. He sees her shift slightly in the uncomfortable chair, eyes closed in sleep. He takes a tentative step closer, curiosity driving him. She is so trusting of Angel, unaware of how unstable he is right now in his haze.

Angel stares at her for a very long moment, waiting, watching, listening for any sign that she might wake up. He is not sure about her, if she is an enemy there to bring more torture or not. Though how could she _not_ be here to torture him as everyone else had? Millions of faces had been paraded by him, bringing their own form of pain and anguish to lavish upon him as he had once done to them. They are nothing more then a blur to him now in his memory of it. So many faces, so many screams. He holds his hands to his ears now as they ring with howls of suffering.

He had not been the only one in hell, but one of thousands…millions. They’d been separated yet he could see everyone else’s suffering, enhancing his own. Demon upon demon walked around the blackness, for there was no light, yet he could see. He could see each and every one of them clearly. Each demon was different for each prisoner. Every one of them had their own personal hell created for them. It was pure madness, a place Angelus would have found pleasing…but not Angel. No, never Angel. All those lost souls he couldn’t help.

His own soul was of great amusement, an evil vampire turned to good then thrown to hell for what was to be all of eternity. The demons laughed and mocked him in languages he couldn’t place, but it was written on their faces…the pleasure they took in the cruel irony of the situation. 

There was no escape for Angel, try as he might. He ran, ran for what seemed hours yet he got absolutely nowhere, coming no closer to any of the other helpless people. How the demons laughed at him then. He was trapped in a transparent box of blackness, of despair. How long had he tried to escape? Days? Weeks? Months? He didn’t know then and can’t know now. Time held no meaning there, for the absence of time was part of the torture, part of the pain they inflicted on him.

It doesn’t matter now. Angel can barely recollect any of it in conscious detail save for smells and the occasional sound. He continues on his meandering search of the stone house. He’s not looking for anything in particular, but just looking as if seeing it all for the first time. He is awed by the fact that he can touch and actually feel something. In hell he felt nothing but the bite of the whip, the sting of the knife, and the stickiness of his blood clinging and drying all over his body. His blood only flaking off to be replaced with some fresh from another wound.

The soft sound of Willow’s breathing and the shuffling of Angel’s feet are the only sounds in the house. Not even the leaves just outside the window are moving. An eerie silence has come over the house through the shadows, cloaked in them. The air is still, the breeze that had come through the windows earlier has taken its leave leaving a stillness that is palpable. And so the night wore on unendingly, with Angel searching the large house, and Willow blissfully unaware in her slumber.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Night slowly bleeds into day, heralded by the soft singing of birds and insects. Grasshoppers can be heard chirping out a soft melody, one that is in tune with the Blue Jays singing on a gnarled tree branch outside of the mansion. Such a beautiful sunrise, the dark blue sky is fading into pinks and purples and shows the white-silver lining of the clouds.

Angel has made his way through the entire expanse of the mansion by the time the sun breaks across the horizon. The startling light drives him to find a hiding place in a dark corner in the forgotten basement. 

The soft thump, thump, thump of Willow’s heartbeat reaches Angel’s ears, maddening him. It speaks of blood and sex to his baser nature. However, when he envisions himself going upstairs and taking a taste of her, words like ‘cursed’, ‘no reprieve’, and ‘damned’ echo on the edge of his consciousness. He is slowly becoming more aware of his surroundings. He knows for certain now that he has spent time here, having come upon what had once been his room earlier. He has donned pants that he found in a trunk. With every passing minute, Angel’s thoughts become more and more coherent. Even phrases were making their way to his understanding.

‘Free,’ he thinks, though unsure if it is his thought or not. It does ring true to him. He is free, no longer bound by the transparent darkness that had once held him so firmly in the demons’ grasp. But he isn’t free, not really, not right now at least. The light holds him captive now. ‘Free to make them pay,’ the thought says. Angel looks around frantically for the source, for it is not merely just a thought. The force with which it sounds in his mind makes him think there is someone else here. 

Finding no one, he settles back down in his corner. The voice is right; he is free, free to make them pay. He is almost overwhelmed. The thought keeps coming like a wave to wash over him, giving him conviction to act…if only for a short time.

So many things still confuse him. He doesn’t believe that he is actually out of hell, more likely he is in a place inside of hell designed to look familiar to him. Was this just another ploy to torture him? Grant him the semblance of freedom only to rip it from him? Yes, that had to be it. He is still in hell. This realization angers him. He decides not to let them get the better of him. He will fight back this time, more fiercely then ever. 

But the girl upstairs sleeping, she has been nice to him and fed him. Is she part of the demons’ ploy as well? Yes, of course she is. How could she not be? He knows her, was friends with her at one point in his life. They expect him to trust her. Well, he won’t fall for that either.

Angel listens for her, her heartbeat. It is still soft and steady, beating out the rhythm of sleep. He will go for her now, while he can. Catching her asleep will prove easier, since he is still weakened. He might even be able to feed off of her for strength; he knows she is strong, if they molded her after the girl he’d once known.

The decision made, he creeps slowly and quietly up the stairs, making sure to stay out of the harmful light. He isn’t sure if the light is just a harmless illusion, but he doesn’t think so. They wouldn’t just fake sunlight, he was sure it would burn him. Angel is thankful that the stairs are made out of stone. While he could still possibly make noise, it was highly unlikely.

Upon reaching the doorway that led to the vast living room, he stops and surveys the area. There is nothing. The shadows would reveal all their secrets to him, and they have none. He is sure that there is a demon somewhere, watching him, but he shakes this feeling off. If they are here, he will deal with them when the time comes. Right now, he wants to get to the girl. But how? She is bathed in sunlight.

Angel has to think for a minute, his mind sharpening rapidly. Maybe he could call her out. Would she come to him them? If she didn’t, then she would know his plot. He has to weigh the risks. Right now he isn’t sure of his status, but doesn’t want to compromise what short reprieve he appears to have right now. How then, can he get her to come to him without giving himself away?

He moves slowly into the room, creeping closer and closer to the sleeping girl. ‘Willow,’ he thinks. ‘Her name is Willow.’ Angel now has a name for her, and his recollection of her is clearer now. She is the one who helped…he doesn’t know. His memory is still foggy. ‘Free to make them pay,’ the voice whispers in his head. He nods. Angel knows. 

Sitting on the floor, he goes about his plan to rouse Willow. Picking up the cooler he reaches inside for one of the two blood packs left and rips into it, drinking greedily. His thirst has not been quenched by feeding earlier. Years he has not fed, and he wants Willow’s blood now, sees himself drinking from that milk white flesh at the crook of her neck. Noisily this time, he grabs the last pack and tosses the cooler, letting it bounce on the stone floor. 

Willow is immediately awake and alarmed. Looking around wildly, she spots the cooler, then looks back to see Angel tossing the last of the packs in the same direction as the cooler.

“Angel, what’s wrong?” Willow asks, concerned. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep and she berates herself for it. Self-recrimination can wait though; right now she has Angel to deal with. Stepping out of the protective circle of light, she comes closer to him.

Trying not to smile at his luck, Angel looks at her as she makes her way to him. ‘Just a little closer,’ he thinks, ‘then she will be within my grasp. Free, free to make them pay.’


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Trying not to smile at his luck, Angel looks at her as she makes her way to him. ‘Just a little closer,’ he thinks, ‘then she will be within my grasp. Free, free to make them pay.’ 

Willow steps a little closer and Angel makes his face a mask of confusion. She gets down on one knee to be eye level with him. Studying him, she reaches out a hand tentatively, letting it hover just centimeters above his cheek. Looking into his eyes, she sees the brief flicker of recognition that she’s been looking for since she found him. A huge smile breaks out on her face and she throws herself into his arms.

“Oh Angel!” she cries. “I knew you’d remember. Oh, it’s so good to have you back.”

‘Perfect,’ he thought as he enfolds her in his arms. “Willow,” he says tentatively, and she nods enthusiastically, still holding him. His grip firms and he stands with her still in his arms.

‘Take her,’ the strange voice says, the one that sounds so much like himself. ‘Take her and make her pay.’ The plan forms in the still somewhat hazy mind of Angel as he starts to move with Willow still in his arms. At first she is unaware of their movement, being so caught up in the moment, but then she sees they are moving towards the stairs and tries to let go. Realization hits her, hard and fast.

“Angel, let me go,” she says, pushing at his chest. Fear starts a slow course through her, making her palms go sweaty and her face pale. She doesn’t know what is going on, or why Angel won’t let her go. This is just not something she expected to happen, not to her, not with Angel.

Inhaling deeply, he can smell the fear that has started to roll off of her in tantalizing waves. He almost groans. It has been so long since he’s been able to inhale that sweetly tangy scent. It sings to parts of him that haven’t been stirred in centuries. All of her wriggling isn’t helping matters either. ‘Nice,’ the voice says. Angel is inclined to agree, she is nice. They have reached the stairs and he starts his way down. Willow redoubles her efforts and begins to kick at him as well.

“What are you doing? Where are you taking me?” Willow asks with some venom in her voice. ‘This is all my fault,’ she thinks. ‘I should have known better. He’s just come back from _hell_ for crying out loud. Stupid!’

“Surprise,” Angel says in answer to her heated questions. She stills, and some of her anger dissipates.

“Well, you can put me down. I can walk you know,” Willow says with some trepidation. She is still unsure about his motives, but feels a little better that he can actually understand her and answer her questions. Even if they are one word answers. It shows progress and Willow can’t help but feel a little uplifted by that.

“Slippery,” Angel says. He doesn’t dare let her go. This is his only chance to ‘make them pay’. He hasn’t quite figured out who _they_ are yet, but he is sure she knows and will tell him…one way or another. 

There is a small hallway shrouded in darkness at the bottom of the long staircase. There are doors on both the left and right side in the middle of the hall. He has thoroughly searched both of these rooms when he came down earlier. There is a dampness to the hallway and the slight smell of something moldy. It is colder down here than up in the main room, and a slight moistness to the walls and ceiling. Angel goes to the door on the right. It is a small room with an empty, rotted bookcase on the left side and a rusted candelabra on the right. A well-worn, wooden box filled with old dolls sits in the far right corner. He walks straight to the far wall in just a few strides. Carefully, he feels for the loosened stone and pushes it back and to one side.

Willow is blind in the dark, but hears the stone being moved and the scraping of wood on stone off to her left.

“What is going on Angel?” she asks. Now she is not so sure she wants to be here. Something is wrong. She can feel it in her gut, like something is twisting it up and pulling.

“Surprise,” Angel replies once more. He turns and waits for the rotted bookcase to move. It reveals a doorway, which was hidden before. Angel now moves with a purpose. ‘Free to take her,’ the voice whispers to him. He looks around, now in game face, for the darkness here is too thick for him to see with his human-like eyes.

Angel looks around with what would be considered, by anyone who could see it, a feral grin. Some memories of this room come flooding back to him in waves of blood and screams. He barely registers the hidden door sliding back into place. The ten foot by fifteen foot room was set up by Angelus when he had inhabited this house. It had once held jewels and other such valuable items, along with some furniture that had been removed and brought into the main part of the house.

What there is now is a nice four poster bed standing in the far right corner, the chains still hanging from it. There is a table in the middle of the room set up with restraints and a small unit off to the side that was designed to hold certain…instruments that could be used on whoever was unfortunate enough to find themselves on that table. Chains hang from the ceiling in the far left corner of the room, and a cross with restraints similar to the table stands against the wall. Different-sized whips and other torture implements hang from various spots along the same wall.

Angel stands there and takes it all in, reveling in his space. ‘Make them pay,’ the words keep playing over and over in his mind, and the more he hears them, the bigger his smile gets.

“Angel, put me down now!” Willow yells. She is growing anxious and fearful, blind as she is in this room. Fear creeps up her spine slowly, like something slick and wet. An involuntary shiver wracks her body and she hears Angel chuckle low and deep. This does nothing to relieve her tension at the situation she finds herself in.

“Ok,” Angel says and walks towards the bed. He is not worried about her getting out of his grasp now. He knows she can’t see a thing, and even if she could, she wouldn’t know how to get out of here. Only he knows. 

He approaches the bed and sets her down on her feet, but keeps one arm around her waist as he grabs for one of the manacles that hang from the bed. She struggles in his arm, but doesn’t break loose.

“Let me go!” Willow screams, anger tinging her voice. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, but Buffy won’t let you get away with it!” She is shocked that her friend could do something like this to her. ‘What is wrong with him?’ she wonders frantically.

‘Buffy…Slayer,’ he thinks. ‘Must make her pay as well.’ His memory comes back in a brief flash. A sword fight, glints of metal and blonde hair, then pain…excruciating pain, then a kiss as she says she loves him just as she slices through his heart with her sword, then…hell. 

Angrily he grabs for an arm that is close to his and roughly puts the manacle on. The loud click tells him it is in place and he checks to make sure her hand can’t come through it. She is small and delicate and mustn’t be allowed to accidentally escape. Willow pounds wildly with her free hand on his chest.

Angel grabs the hand that is hitting him and climbs onto the bed, dragging her with him. With the other manacle he fastens her arm in place and looks at her. Her arms are held securely above her shoulders, not tight, but not loose either. She struggles to break free of the chains, an exquisite look of anger and pain on her face that Angel appreciates. He didn’t expect her to lay back and take it, nor did he want that. Such righteous indignation she has at being chained up.

“Be thankful you are somewhat comfortable,” Angel says, startling Willow and making her stop her struggles. “I was afforded no such luxury in hell.”

Willow’s mouth works like a fish until she can get her vocal cords to work. “What?” she asks in a weak voice.

“The bed,” he says by way of explanation. She is silent. Slowly he gets off the bed and searches in a small end table that is next to the bed for some matches. He finds them and checks to see if they have been affected by the dampness. Finding them dry, he lights the small candle that is on the table. It gives a weak light to the room, barely lighting only the immediate area, but it is enough.

Willow gives a small gasp as she sees the room come to life in front of her. She can’t believe it. Angel has brought her to some sort of torture chamber. 

He clambers back onto the bed and watches Willow’s reaction to the room. It is everything he has hoped it would be. Fear and disbelief make a dance across her face, before finally giving way to shock.

“I take it you like it?” Angel says. He loves the smell of her, so potent and strong. It calls to him like a song. He leans in closer to her, putting his face in her neck and inhales. The soft scent of her skin mingled with her fear is almost irresistible to him. He has to fight for control. Not wanting to kill her right away, he reigns himself in. There are so many plans he has for her and it would not be advantageous for him to kill her…not right now at least.

“I don’t understand…Angel?” she asks, shrinking away from him.

“It’s all coming back you know…everything,” Angel says. He is looking at the pulse point in her neck and watching hungrily as it jumps. “Hell.”

“I’m so sorry Angel. I…I didn’t know! I swear to you I didn’t. Please, please don’t do this. Look, we can talk, ok? I mean, just…just please don’t do this,” Willow babbles, tears making long streaks down her face.

“Shh,” Angel crooned, placing a finger on her trembling lips. He leans into her and places his lips where his finger was. She is startled, having not expected this. When she opens her mouth to say something, he takes advantage of it and plunders her mouth with his tongue. Not an easy kiss, not soft, but rough and just a little hard, making her feel all his frustration over the last centuries. She leans into it just a little, but tries to push him away with her restrained hands.

Panting with unneeded breath, Angel makes his way down her neck, to her collar bone biting a little harder than she expected and making her gasp. His hands move along the outside of her shirt, rubbing her breasts with hard strokes. It’s almost painful to her, and she realizes what he is going to do. Willow struggles against him, only succeeding in making him laugh.

Sitting up he hooks a finger in her soft purple shirt and pulls with a downward motion, tearing the material and revealing her satin covered breasts. 

“No!” she yells and tries to scoot away from him, further up on the bed. Angel just moves with her, a wild and unfocused look in his eyes. “Please don’t,” she sobs. 

Angel ignores her in favor of pushing up her flowing skirt and tearing at her underwear. Willow lets out a small yelp as the material is removed. This is her worst nightmare. Something she never imagined would happen to her. Something she never believed Angel would do to her.

Running his hands up and under her body, he is lost in her, in her scent. Angel doesn’t care about her cries or pleas. He is making her pay…the only way he knows how. Her cries of for mercy do not move him. His vision is filled with her, consuming him. Her blood is so close to the surface of her skin that he can almost taste it, but he wants just a little more. How luscious it will taste when he’s in her.

Roughly he undoes his pants, not bothering to take them off. Angel is hard and ready to take her and make her his…make her pay. With an arm tucked it under her, he pulls her swiftly further down the bed, and pushes her legs open, moving in between them before she has a chance to close her legs again.

Without warning, he thrusts into her. She is so tight that he almost comes on the spot. Angel, with his girth, has stretched her and torn her. Blood is now scented on the air, sending him into a frenzy. Thrusting roughly, he puts his face close to her pulse point and shifts. In one quick movement he buries his fangs in her and bites down, letting her blood fill his mouth. He was right, her blood is rich and spicy and just a little more powerful then he’d originally thought. As soon as he swallows his first mouthful, he comes hard. 

The last of his dead seed pumps into her as he takes just one more mouthful of her delicious blood before removing his fangs. Angel licks gently at the wound to close it.

He lays there for a minute, reveling in the ‘afterglow’. “Free,” he whispers. Sitting up, he looks at her disheveled form. She is unconscious, though he isn’t sure if that was due to blood loss or not.

Rolling over, he moves to lie next to her. He is suddenly tired and more than a little proud of himself. Settling down, he drapes an arm across Willow. ‘They will all pay,’ he thinks.


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

The first thing she notices is pain, a deep pain that sits heavy and throbbing throughout her. Willow’s head is pounding and her body stiff from lack of movement. She tries moving her hand to rub at her face and hears the chain rattle. Immediately, her eyes open. Darkness, nothing but pitch black now that the candle has gone out. Her body involuntarily shudders, knowing before she does that she would not like what she would see if there was light. There is a body off to her left with an arm draped around her midsection. ‘Angel,’ she thinks. The tears start, slowly at first, before they give way to sobs that wrack her body.

Realization has hit her, hard and fast. He has raped her and drunk from her. ‘Why?’ her mind keeps repeating. ‘No,’ her mind cries. ‘No, it can’t be. It just can’t! It’s not Angel, not Angel. But Buffy said…she said the spell worked. Oh God.’

Angel is awake now, listening quietly to her sobbing. A feeling of guilt tries to worm its way into him. ‘She’s just a demon,’ he tells himself. ‘She deserves this.’ The guilt is quenched…for now. There is so much he can do to her that he almost feels almost giddy at the possibilities. The room has gone dark, but he can see. He can see her wild eyes searching the darkness, hear the hitch of her breath as she cries, and see the hard thumping of her pulse in her neck. It calls him, her blood does, the coursing of it through her veins. He licks his lips and can still taste her in the corners of his mouth. She is starting to do breathing exercises, trying to rein herself in, and Angel momentarily respects her for her strength. ‘Just a demon,’ the voice says. He is thankful to that inner voice, thankful that it keeps him on track and helps him stay focused on who, or rather what, she really is. She may have the face of a friend, but she is really a demon, one of the hundreds that have tortured him over and over again.

Growing impatient, Angel sits up and gets off the bed. He sees Willow still at his movement. Walking to the end table, he grabs another candle and lights it, illuminating the room once again.

The horror of this room hits Willow again. She is still disbelieving, not sure if she is dreaming. The pain in her body abruptly lets her know that she is indeed awake and not sleeping. Her eyes dart around the room from Angel, to the table, the cross, the chains, before finally settling back on Angel. Willow tracks his movements carefully. ‘I have to find a way out,’ she thinks. It seems an impossible feat to her. She didn’t see how they came in or where exactly she was. There was too much darkness, but she knows she’s in a basement, the coolness of the air tells her that much.

“How are you this morning?” Angel asks, reaching out to put a lock of her hair behind her ear.

His simple movement sends her heart racing as she jerks away from the offending hand. She can’t handle him touching her, not like that, not after what he’d done. Willow goes into a fit, pulling on the chains so hard that they bite into her wrists, making them bleed. She thrashes wildly as Angel looks on with amusement.

Finding her escape impossible, Willow calms down. She is breathing quick and fast. Shock is making her pulse race and her whole body goes clammy with a cold sweat. 

“Deep breaths, otherwise you’ll pass out,” Angel says calmly. She looks at him confused, unsure of why he would give her advice like that if he has her chained up. Taking long deep breaths, she calms a bit.

“There,” he says with a smile. 

“What do you want?” Willow asks in a small voice. She is in desperate need of water, but doesn’t want to ask. She has a frantic curiosity about why he is doing this, and frankly she just has to know.

“I want a lot of things,” Angel says by way of an answer. He moves slowly and purposefully over towards the table in the middle of the room. Dragging his hand lightly over the edges, he finds it is dusty. The restraints are still in good working order, though. They are thick and wide leather wrist straps that buckle under the table. Angelus had specifically asked for this to be built years ago, so no one could escape. Angel goes to methodically unbuckle each strap.

Willow looks on with horror. She knows what the table is for even though she’s never seen one like it before. She knows it’s for her. But she doesn’t know she is screaming at the top of her lungs. Not until Angel tells her gruffly to shut up.

“You will have plenty to scream about soon, demon. Might as well save your voice for when it’s more appropriate,” Angel says. 

Knowing she can do nothing about her situation doesn’t calm Willow; it just makes her struggles increase. She franticly pulls on the chains, legs kicking, trying anything to get out, get away from this horror, this waking nightmare. Willow silently prays to anyone who will listen to her. She doesn’t think this is possible, it just can’t be. Her struggles gradually cease from exhaustion; she just doesn’t have the strength to put up this much of a fight. Her eyes slowly close as unconsciousness tries to claw its way up and out to wash over her, to shield her from the terrors she has awoken to. The last thing she sees is Angel standing over her. 

“They just don’t make them like they used to,” Angel says to the now unconscious Willow. 

Moving closer, he grabs her wrists and inspects the damage. Blood still slowly seeps from the small gashes she put in them from her struggles. He can’t help himself; Angel just has to lick the wounds after releasing her arms from the shackles. Her blood tingles on his tongue as he savors its flavor and power, rolling it around in his mouth. Angel could easily loose himself in her body, in her blood, in her skin, in her. ‘Not Willow, it’s not her,’ he says to himself. ‘Of all the forms these demons can take, they have to take this one! Why? Has my torment not been enough? Have I not paid enough?’

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Angel walks resolutely over to the table he has set up in the middle of the room. None too gently, he drops her on the table causing a small moan of pain to come from her, but nothing more. Angel efficiently works at the straps, making sure they are tight enough to keep her in place.

Finally, Willow is securely in place on her stomach. The hard wood presses her breasts up, almost to the point of being painful. Her arms are outstretched to each side and her legs are more than a little uncomfortable due to how far apart they are. She still lies there semi-conscious. She can hear Angel moving around, but her eyes don’t want to open. They know better then to open, they are telling her to just lay there and not look, and she is inclined to agree.

Angel stands there for a minute, just looking. For hundreds of years he has been the tortured, not the torturer, he just needs to get back into the mindset. Taking a deep breath, he pulls away what is left of Willow’s clothing, baring her back to him. He takes a moment to appreciate her subtle beauty. His eyes trail along a line from the smooth, milk-white neck that now bears his mark, along her spine, which leads tantalizingly to the soft swell of her buttocks and on to those long slender legs that she never shows. Reaching out, Angel puts his hand just above her skin, only centimeters away from contact, and traces the curves of her body, memorizing them. ‘So close to perfection,’ he thinks. ‘They copied her so well, just as I remember.’

“Enough!” Angel yells, bringing his hand down hard on her buttocks with a loud smack. It is enough to cause Willow to gasp in pain and her eyes to open in surprise.

Briskly, Angel walks over to the wall of whips, glancing every now and then between the large red hand print on her and the wall. Willow’s eyes go wide with horror. ‘See, this is why I kept my eyes closed,’ Willow thinks.

“What do you think Willow?” Angel asks, startling her out of her thoughts and gesturing at the collection of whips. “Do you have a preference?”

Willow just lies there, not saying a thing. She can’t get her mouth to work, or air to move across her vocal cords to form the words she wants to say. Her brain can not wrap around what it is she is looking at. Leather, it was just so much leather hanging there, waiting for her to choose, to pick one to be laid across her skin over and over again…marking her. Finally, her head begins to move in a slow shake.

“No?” Angel asks, a small smile gracing his lips. He knew she wouldn’t choose. The asking is part of the torture. Some memories of long ago when he was Angelus, and not this sad pathetic vampire sent to hell with a soul, are coming back to him, showing him how it was. Slowly, Angel traces a hand along each whip, fingering the braided leather on some, the thin straps on others. ‘Must make it last,’ he thinks. ‘Last so she can pay, so they all can pay.’

“Yes, yes make it last,” Angel says out loud. The small edge of madness shows in his eyes and tells Willow that she should truly be afraid. Not the small fear of ‘when will I get out,’ but the larger fear of ‘how soon will I die.’

Swiftly, Angel grabs a whip. It is nothing more then a thick strap a few inches wide, but it will do for starters. He moves far enough down her body that Willow has to strain her neck to see him, and then only through a veil of her own hair. 

The crack of the whip is heard before Willow even feels the pain. It washes over her, slowly at first, then faster until a scream is ripped from her throat. The burning pain sears her skin a bright red. Angel lays it directly across her buttocks, closer to her back. 

“Well, that was a lovely scream. It even rivaled some of my better ones,” Angel says, walking around to crouch down and look at her in the eyes. “Care for another?”

Willow takes no time in answering this time. Her head shakes, causing her vision to blur slightly. “No,” she whispers. “Please no. Why?” Tears come to leave streaks along her dirt-stained cheeks.

“You ask ‘why’?” Angel says, standing up to continue. “How dare you ask ‘why’!” The end of his sentence is punctuated with the snap of the whip on Willow’s lower back. 

“You know why.”

“No,” Willow says through her tears. Her voice is small and weak. Never has she felt such pain as she is now. It’s overwhelming. 

“Well, then I shall educate you,” Angel says. He lays the whip down again, near the middle of her back. The redness is spreading, much to his delight. “You mark very well, Willow, very well indeed. Now, where was I?” The whip smacks again. “Oh, yes. Well, I would think you should know why. Turn about is fair play. That’s the saying isn’t it?”

“I never,” Willow starts to say, but is cut off by another hit with the whip. She clenches her teeth on the pain, refusing to cry out again. “I never did this to you.”

“Oh but you did. You and all of your…friends, if that’s what you call them. You paraded yourselves about me, cutting me up, making me suffer. For what? For what?!” Angel yells, laying a rain of smacks along her legs. The quickness of it makes her involuntarily twitch and squirm. The unwanted cry of pain is forced from her mouth.

Finally, Angel stops whipping her. Willow breathes heavily which brings the pain to the surface. Each little movement hurts. She has no clue what is going on in his mind, and is no longer sure she wants to know. It’s almost as if he is crazed or delusional. Either way he is dangerous to her, and she can do nothing about it. Willow doesn’t even notice or care about the tears this time. There is no stopping them.

“I didn’t do anything,” Willow says in a small choked whisper. “I’m sorry Angel. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. She said it worked. I didn’t know. She had to kill you. The portal was opened; there was no other way to close it. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” Angel asks angrily. He stalks over to the wall and grabs another whip; this one has ten half-inch straps of leather connected to a handle. Walking back over to Willow he grabs her roughly by the hair and yanks her head up at a painful angle to look at him. “How dare you say you’re sorry. You have no idea what it was like. No, you do know, only not from where I was crouched for years. Now, now you will know.” Shoving her head back down he cracks the tethered whip across her back. Thin lines of blood come slowly to the surface. The red of her skin almost matches the red of the blood. Large welts are forming in the most abused areas.

“You know now, don’t you? For years you kept me trapped in that…that place, my hell. Every time I tried to escape you laughed and beat me more. For years I watched you parade those I loved in front of me, just images of them I know now, but then…then I thought they were real. You handed them knives and whips. Kind of like the one I’m using on you. You gave them the tools to carve into me, to beat me bloody until I couldn’t think. Yet, you wouldn’t let me die. And now, now you have the audacity to say you’re sorry? No, no you don’t get that luxury. You aren’t allowed that type of absolution. Not now, not ever. Hear me?” Angel cracks the whip again and again with a fury. The blood wells and starts to pool in the small of her back. Her screams resound throughout the room, echoing from the walls and from the ceiling. 

Stopping, Angel breaths deeply, even though he doesn’t need the air, the exertion just makes him think he does. Willow is making small piteous sounds, he throat long sore and scratched, no longer able to speak or scream.

Angel feels something…some stirring of something at the back of his neck, worming its way down his spine. ‘It can’t be,’ he thinks. The familiar tingling is something no vampire would ever mistake for anything other then what it is…the Slayer.

“We will have to continue this later,” Angel says off-handedly to Willow. He races to the concealed door and opens it, making sure it closes behind him, then takes off up the stairs to meet someone else who is deserving of punishment, someone else he can make pay.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

“We will have to continue this later,” Angel says off-handedly to Willow. He races to the concealed door and opens it, making sure it closes behind him, then takes off up the stairs to meet someone else who is deserving of punishment, someone else he can make pay.

Small sounds of scurrying animals and wind blown leaves can be heard coming from outside the mansion. The sound of gravel and broken stone being walked on echoes in Angel’s ears. He moves quickly and silently up to the main room of the mansion, not wanting to miss his visitor. Carefully he places himself where he can be seen, yet ignored at the same time.

Quietly he watches as a figure stands in the doorway, silhouetted by the moonlight. Her face is shadowed, but there is no mistaking her. Angel knows her, knows every inch of her. Every nerve of his body is on edge, screaming at him to kill her, kill the Slayer. The natural reaction of a vampire is trying to make its way through Angel, trying to change his face, make him move before it’s time. He is stronger than that; he can wait for her to come to him.

Buffy slowly makes her way across the threshold, unshed tears shining in her eyes. It always hurts her to come back, night after night, and relive her worst nightmare. Her eyes show that her thoughts are far away, seeing a time and place where she had to kill the one she loved. She picks her way carefully and slowly through the room, not because there is anything in her way, but because her Slayer sense is just a little jumpy. Coming to her usual spot, she stops and looks down. The ring she had placed on the floor is now gone, stolen she thinks.

Crouching in the corner that had only a few nights ago hidden Willow and him from her sight, Angel waits. It pains him and angers him at the same time to see that look on her face. In his mind she is nothing more then another demon come for him to play with, only this time they’ve artfully made it up to look like Buffy, his supposed 'one true love'. That thought angers him, makes him want to hurt her for taking that form. ‘Why Buffy and Willow?’ Angel asks himself. ‘Of all the people they could mold themselves after, why those two?’

Time slips by, unnoticed and unmourned. Angel, so caught up in his thoughts, has stopped watching Buffy. He doesn’t see her turn to leave and stop abruptly, as she sees his shape vaguely outlined in the shadows. Caution dictates her movements as she draws a stake out of her pocket.

The closer she gets, the clearer the figure gets. Her mind is having a difficult time grasping what she is seeing. Buffy sees Angel, but she knows he’s in hell. She knows because she is the one that sent him there.

“Angel?” Buffy whispers.

Trying hard to keep a smile off his face, Angel crawls slowly into the moonlight, and looks up at her with false tears in his eyes, showing her he is harmless.

“B-Buffy?” Angel chokes out.

“How?” she asks, dropping her stake and reaching out to touch him, make sure he is real. ‘Oh God,’ she thinks. ‘He’s here, he’s back.’ Huge, silent tears fall down her face; she is so thankful that her hand meets flesh, proving that he is not a figment of her imagination.

Angel gently reaches up and touches the hand that is caressing his face. Dropping to her knees, Buffy stares at him, looking for signs to confirm that it is him. He leans his head into her hand and kisses it softly, bringing a gasp of surprise and pleasure from her. 

Flinging her arms around Angel she says, “Oh God, I can’t believe it! You’re.....you’re back. I’m so sorry Angel. I had to. You know that right? You know I had to, right?”

“Shh,” Angel says stroking her hair and holding her close to him. He discreetly moves her hair away from her neck whispering sweet things into her ear. The pounding of her heart drowns out her apologies. 

“It’s ok, I understand,” he says. Softly, he lays kisses along her shoulder, moving slowly towards her neck. “You can make it up to me.” Without warning Angel strikes at her neck, sinking his fangs painfully into her throat.

Buffy struggles, trying to push him away and kick at him. She yells his name and rakes her nails along his face and back, anything she can think of to get him away from her. Vaguely she remembers dropping her stake. Reaching a hand out behind her she tries to search for it, but Angel has other plans, better plans, for her. Standing up, he pins her to the wall to slow her struggles and keep her from finding anything to stop him with.

Greedily, Angel suckles at her throat, reveling in the feeling of power as her blood flows over his lips and into his body. It’s a rush, like a drug to him. Slowly, he feels her struggles ease, feels her become lethargic. Finally, he feels her swoon, her arms and legs going limp against him. Removing his fangs from her neck, he licks his lips in satisfaction.

“Yes, you can make it up to me. Isn’t that what you want?” Angel asks Buffy, who is now semi-conscious.

“I’ve got a special place for you,” he says, swinging her up so that he can carry her. “I picked it out earlier. I wasn’t sure if you would come or not. I must be doing something right if they have sent me another one to play with, to make pay. I don’t want to disappoint them, do I?” Angel makes his way down the dark, dank stairwell and into the secret room in the basement with Buffy still groggy in his arms.

“There,” Angel says, making sure the door closes behind them, “see now? The cross in the corner is yours. I assume you know the one laying on the table there.”

He walks by Willow who is now unconscious from exhaustion. The trials he’d put her through earlier have drained her of whatever reserves of energy she had.

“Willow,” Buffy says thickly. Her mouth is dry and her vision blurry, but there is no mistaking that shock of red hair. She can barely see in the dim light coming from a single candle. The room has a faint metallic odor to it from the blood that is exposed to the air and Buffy has to swallow through rising nausea.

Walking quickly to the far right corner, Angel unbuckles the straps on the wooden cross, careful to keep Buffy held in his free arm. The thick leather straps are the same kind that has Willow currently secured to the table. This was another of Angelus’ acquisitions while he had inhabited this house. Careful not to touch the cross and get burned, Angel props Buffy up against the wood. There is a leather strap that can be placed across the abdomen, so he restrains her with that one first before moving on to her wrists and legs. When she is finally secure, he steps back and looks at his work.

“There. Comfortable?” Angel asks smiling.

“What?” Buffy asks confused. Nothing is quite making its way to her brain; her thoughts are all fuzzy due to loss of blood. She knows she is propped up on something and she is aware that something isn’t right about Angel, about this whole situation. Her eyes want to close and not open, but she can’t let that happen, not with Willow in trouble.

Chuckling, Angel brushes her hair from her face. “I don’t know why they have given the two of you to me, but I can assure you I won’t waste this opportunity,” he says pressing his finger into the wound on her neck, making it bleed more. Sighing with what could only be contentment; he licks the blood off his finger and revels in the small jolt of power that rushes along his tongue and down his throat.

Angel walks over to Willow, her face a mask of pain, and taps her on the forehead. “Time to get up,” he says. “I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Reluctantly, Willow’s eyes open. Her back is a mass of pain, her body protesting each movement. Angel steps out of her line of view and gestures to the corner. In her state, it takes her a minute to actually focus on what, or who, is there. Slowly she sees a red and white top and blonde hair. Concentrating, she sees that it is not a red and white top, but a blood-stained white shirt. Willow involuntarily lets out a small noise, indicating that she is finally comprehending what she is seeing.

“Buffy,” Willow says, her voice hoarse from screaming earlier.

“Don’t you like it?” Angel says crouching down so he is eye level with her. “I found her upstairs. Did you know that Buffy killed me? She sent me here, sent me to hell. I’ve been doing something right, haven’t I? For someone to send me another demon to make pay. But why in these forms? Why do you look like Buffy and Willow?”

A confused Willow looks at Angel. “What?” she whispers. “Demons?”

“Yes! Demons! Both of you!” Angel yells, standing up. “Can you see her from there?”

Willow shakes her head no, her vision going blurry again. The light is too dim for her to see clearly, especially in her current state of pain and exhaustion.

Angel walks purposefully over to Buffy and grabs her by the front of her shirt pulling her closer to his face. “Let’s get you closer,” he says to her. “So Willow can see. Don’t want her to miss the show now do we?” He grabs a hold of the strap that crosses her midsection and pulls the wooden cross with Buffy on it so it is closer to Willow.

Willow looks desperately at Buffy who hangs limp on the cross, head down. The situation is hopeless, and Willow now knows that. She has never seen Buffy beaten this badly by anyone. Buffy slowly raises her head to look at Willow. They share a moment of sorrow, tears shining in both their eyes. A small gasp escapes Buffy’s lips as she looks down the line of Willow’s body and sees all the damage that Angel has wrought.

“And I thought you’d be happy to see each other,” Angel says sarcastically, seeking to break their focus on each other and bring it back to him.

“What do you want?” Buffy asks thickly, her mouth dry. 

The smile that spreads across Angel’s face is feral, showing too many teeth, and the look in his eyes plainly says ‘you don’t want to know’. He doesn’t say anything, letting his actions speak for him. He trails a finger along the edge of Buffy’s shirt, making her stiffen and want to crawl away from him. Chuckling softly, he hooks his finger in the top and pulls, ripping the shirt down the middle. It hangs loosely by the thin spaghetti straps, exposing her bra and stomach, showing Angel all that pale flesh.

Willow whimpers, unable to say anything, her throat dry and hurting, but she remembers when he’d done that to her, ripped her shirt. She shut her eyes tightly, not wanting to see what he would do. Vaguely she hears struggling and the knocking of wood on stone. Opening her eyes, Willow sees Buffy struggling against the restraints and hurling curses at Angel. But Buffy is drained, not only of blood, but energy as well. Her struggles weaken and Willow watches as Angel smiles again.

“If you’re done?” Angel asks. Walking in front of Buffy, he blocks Willow’s view as her grabs the top of Buffy’s skirt with both hands. A loud tearing sound reverberates in the silence along with Buffy’s scream. Moving away, Angel let’s Willow look, and she sees that he has removed her skirt and what underclothes she’d been wearing. Buffy hangs nude on the cross, crying and whispering something unintelligible.

“No,” Willow whispers, shaking her head. She can't let him do this, not this. 

“No?” Angel asks. “Do you forget you have no choice?” His voice trails off as he walks around the table in search of something. There is a sound of wood scraping on wood as he opens a drawer hidden under the table. The clinking of metal sounds loud and oppressive in the deadly silence of the room. Buffy and Willow collectively hold their breaths, wondering what Angel is searching for, and both knowing they really don’t want him to find it.

A smile of triumph spreads across Angel’s face as he pulls out what he was looking for and holds it up for both the girls to see. The highly polished metal glitters in the soft glow from the candle, showing off sharpened edges and beautifully ornate carvings. Willow lets out a gasp and Buffy stays silent, only her eyes showing her fear. Angel turns the knife in the light, showing it off for them. It is six inches long coming to a fine point. It looks like it could split the finest of hairs down the middle. The handle is a dark cherry wood that almost resembles blood, which was probably the point. 

“Do you like it?” Angel asks, walking back to stand in front of Buffy.

“Go to hell,” she says.

“I'm already there. Thanks to you,” he says scathingly. With a quick flick of his wrist he slashes across her stomach, making her gasp with surprise. They all watch as the smooth skin soon opens and blood oozes to the surface. Their eyes follow as drops cling and slide down, some pooling in her bellybutton only to overflow and continue their journey down her body.

Buffy’s shock slowly gives way to anger. She pulls frantically on the straps that hold her securely to the cross, wanting out, needing to get free. Not only for her sake, but Willow’s as well. Her sudden feeling of helplessness brings tears to her eyes. ‘I’m the Slayer,’ she thinks, ‘I am not helpless!’ Her muscles scream at her as she keeps up her thrashing, her body protesting each movement in her weakened state. 

“Such a spitfire,” Angel says with a hint of laughter in his voice. “The Willow impersonator on the table did the same thing when I had her chained to the bed over there.” He walks around Buffy, eyeing the cross to make sure she hasn’t weakened it with her struggling. He doesn’t want to ruin this opportunity. It is too good, and he isn’t sure when it will end.

“Why?” Buffy asks in a defeated voice. “Why Willow?”

Angel looks at her, then at Willow, composing his thoughts. “Don’t you know?” he asks. When they both shake their heads 'no', he has a moment of shock. 

“While you actually sent me to hell, she sent me there, I mean here, with a soul,” he says giving Willow a scathing look. “Do you know what they do to vampires with souls in hell?”

“I’m sorry Angel,” Willow says in a whisper.

“No, don’t apologize Willow,” Buffy says. “He did it himself.”

Another line of red appears as Angel once more uses the knife on Buffy. Then another. The front of her stomach becomes a curtain of blood, each cut making Buffy wince and droop just a little more on the cross. Her life is slipping from her as she watches it trail down her body. The cuts burn now. Angel watches hungrily as the blood flows, dripping from her feet into a small trough on the floor, placed there to collect the blood. 

“I did not. Angelus…he…he wanted to bring hell on earth. _I_ never wanted that.” Angel’s voice turns quiet. The whole room falls silent, becoming thick with the scent of blood and regret and guilt. That pronouncement is too much for Willow who lies quietly on the table, unable to say anything. 

Buffy scoffs after a few moments. “You are one and the same. He taught me that,” she says with some disgust. 

Angel’s hand quickly comes up to encircle her throat, squeezing her airway and making Buffy gasp. “Don’t you _ever_ say we are the same!” he says angrily. “We are _not_ the same!” Angel suddenly lets go of her, leaving Buffy gasping for air and swallowing through a lump in her throat. Willow is softly crying.

“Angel, please,” Willow pleads, her voice barely audible. “It’s not her fault. I did the spell. I gave you your soul back. I wasn’t quick enough though. I’d sent Xander to tell Buffy that it’d worked, but he was too late, or didn’t make it. It’s my fault Angel, not Buffy’s. She was just trying to save the world. Please Angel, don’t do this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Willow’s words trail off into tears. Buffy tries to say something, but she can think of nothing to comfort her friend. 

Angel stands there baffled. His thoughts race to scenes long forgotten and seen through Angelus’ eyes. Twisted memories of sending Drusilla to stop Willow from doing the spell and of Buffy and him in a sword fight right in this very mansion. ‘They can’t know all of that,’ he thinks. ‘Can they? Would they know what happened that night? Would they fake all of this? For what reason?’

“Xander didn’t tell me,” Buffy says. “He told me that you said to give him hell.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Angel says, flicking his wrist and cutting Buffy again, a little deeper this time. His earlier doubts are buried underneath his need to make them pay, no matter who or what they are. Either way. If they are the demons then they deserved it. If they are actually Buffy and Willow…well, they still deserve it for sending him to hell. Sending him to hell with a soul. No matter what Angelus had done, Angel himself hadn’t been the one to do it.

“I’m in hell, and you two mean nothing. You demons mean nothing to me. Your words are just lies and I don’t want to hear it anymore,” he says softly. Standing in front of Buffy, he places the blade to her neck, pressing into her skin and cutting it. 

“Goodbye,” he says. The knife slides slowly across her neck, her scream cut off when the blade slices through her vocal cords. Willow’s scream echoes after Buffy’s as she watches the impossibly red blood flow down the front of her friend’s body. 

Angel solemnly watches Buffy’s life blood leaking out through the huge gash in her neck. Her head lolls to one side, her eyes open and staring at Willow. He listens as the heartbeat slows, then skips. Listens as her breath comes in wet gasps as she tries to breathe, but draws in nothing but blood. The flow of blood slows as her heart stops beating. Willow’s cries echo in the silence.

Bending down, Angel grabs the small wooden trough of blood at Buffy’s now dead feet and tips it to his mouth, drinking it all. 

“Why?” Willow cries.

“Because. You all must pay.”


	10. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

‘No,’ Willow thinks. ‘No, no, no, no.’ That one word repeats itself over and over in her mind. She won’t, can’t, let what happened be real. If it’s real, then she truly will never escape. Her mind is a jumble of sorrow, disbelief, regret, and confusion. Exhaustion is making it next to impossible for her to comprehend everything that has happened in the last forty-eight hours.

Opening her eyelids, Willow looks up at her friend with dry eyes. Her body is no longer able to produce tears. She would cry at that thought alone if she could. Buffy’s body hangs limply from the straps, her head down and to one side. Her blonde hair is masking her face and most of her neck. The gruesome slash across her neck stands out dark and red against the pallor of her skin.

Vaguely, Willow hears Angel moving about in the room, but she doesn’t care about him. Not now, not after this. She feels _she_ is to blame. If only she had alerted Buffy to Angel’s presence the other night. But instead, Willow had hidden Angel. If she had told Buffy then, then none of this would have happened. She wouldn’t be laying here on a cold slab of wood, trussed up like so much meat. Buffy wouldn’t be hanging there dead on a cross.

If she could cry, she would cry herself to sleep, to sweet oblivion, to nothingness. Instead Willow lays there half aware, waiting for the end to come.

\----------

Angel paces around the room, looking for nothing in particular. ‘It happened too fast,’ he thinks. ‘She didn’t understand why, did she? Of course not. How could she? Willow understands though. She always understands. Right?’

His thoughts whirl around in his head, justifying, questioning, and answering. The dead Slayer hangs there, unmoving and unseeing. Angel stops to stare at it, at her. She is almost pretty in death with no woebegone expression to mar her face. He turns then to Willow, lying on the table sleeping, or unconscious. 

“You do understand, don’t you?” Angel asks.

He can no longer stand to see her lying there like this, strapped to the table, blood drying on the perfect curves of her back. She is special, Willow is. Special for trying so hard to save him when he least deserved it, special for apologizing when it really wasn’t her fault. She hadn’t known, couldn’t know. 

Gently, Angel undoes the straps holding Willow down and picks her up in his arms. Softly she moans in pain, her muscles stiff. He lays her down onto the bed next to him and pulls her up close, cradling her slight form and molding himself to her.

Whatever is lying next to him is so much like Willow…too much like Willow. He remembers her words, her apologies, her soft smiles and blushes. They molded her so perfectly…too perfectly. She is so much like the girl he’d come to like, to care for. So much like Willow with her brains, her understanding, that lovely mane of red hair. It is overwhelming to Angel. He wants nothing more then to kiss the hurt away, no matter who or what it is…it’s still Willow. This Willow, his Willow.

The past days, months, and years flow through his mind as he lies there, watching Willow. Moments bleed into moments like the blood that still drips from what is left of Buffy. ‘Buffy,’ Angel thinks. He looks back over at her limp body, the last traces of blood barely oozing out of the gash in her neck. He can still taste the tang of power her blood held, sitting on his palette like the finest of wines. Slayer’s blood. ‘How could they know what Slayer’s blood tastes like?’ he wonders. ‘How can those demons know? What Slayer has ever gone to hell for them to know?’

Not liking the turn his thoughts are taking, Angel gets up from the bed and paces the room helplessly. He stops and looks at Willow lying naked on the bed, most of the blood out of sight on her back, and wonders again how the demons could concoct the innocence Willow’s blood carries. ‘They can’t know,’ he thinks. ‘They just can’t. There is no way they could know that special blend that is just the right mixture of innocence and power, the salty sweetness of it…’

“Then, if they don’t know, that means…,” Angel says out loud, his voice trailing off. 

“Oh God!” Angel exclaims, rushing up to the now graying Buffy. Hesitantly he reaches out a hand to her, feeling the waxy coldness of her skin. Big, fat tears streak their way down his face, dropping to the floor and mixing with her blood. 

“Oh God,” he says again, softer and with more emotion. “Buffy. I…I’m sorry.” He wraps an arm around the wooden cross; ignoring the burns it gives him, and hugs her to him. He whispers apologies that will never be heard by her, the smell of his skin burning filling the room with its stench. Slowly, he lets go and backs away to wipe tears away from his face leaving bloody trails across his skin.

He backs away one slow step at a time, trying to come to terms with what he has done to her. Soon, he finds himself against the bed and lets his knees go limp so he falls onto the bed. Willow’s leg inadvertently bounces and hits Angel’s back. Twirling on the bed, he looks back to see what it is.

“Willow!” Angel cries out. He crawls towards her, lying down beside her. “Willow, I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t know! I would never…you know I would never have…not if I’d known.” Burying his face in her stomach, he cries and holds on to her. Angel’s words become muffled between his sobs and her flesh. Reluctantly, Angel lets go of her and sits down next to her, facing away. 

“You, you should know. You’ll understand then why I did…why I did what I thought I had to do,” he starts out, unsure of how to tell her of his time in hell, and why he thought this place was an extension of it.

“It all seemed so unreal, this place and you, when I first opened my eyes. Don’t you see? I’d been there, in hell, for hundreds of years. It seemed like it was all I knew, all I could remember. The screams, oh God Willow, the screams of all those people and I couldn’t do a thing to stop it, to stop their pain. They knew it would torture me just to see those, to not be able to help them. My soul was just something else they could torture me with. I was a prize to them, something to play with. They paraded everyone I’ve ever cared about in front of me. Gave them whips and knifes to hurt me with. Even…even you were there with a wicked smile on your face.” He stops speaking and looks at Willow, her face serene in a dream-like expression. He marvels at the fact that he never gave her the attention he’d always meant to.

“You know,” he begins softly; “when I saw you standing there, in front of me with that whip…it hurt me, to see that look on your face. It hurt to see that look of utter contempt mar your perfect face and to have it directed at me.” He sighs and lies down next to Willow absently rubbing her arm.

“I want you to know I’m sorry Willow. I’m sorry about everything. I care about you, cared about you even before all of this, before I lost my soul,” he says. He wants to pour his heart out to her, but doesn’t know how. He wants to tell her that he cares about her even loves her, but the words won’t come. They stick in his throat, making him choke on them. The urge to show her how much she means to him overwhelms him and he turns to look at her.

Angel gently brushes the hair from her face, exposing the gentle slope of her cheek. He trails kisses, soft and light, down her cheek bone and along her jaw to her neck. Moving her, Angel exposes her body to him, mistaking her whimpers of protest for moans of satisfaction. Willow’s eyes stay closed, not wanting to see what is going on. Her body lies stiff and unmoving, not responding to her silent pleas for it to run away, or turn away.

The front of her form is remarkably unblemished, untouched as it is by the whip. It lays soft and smooth and open for Angel’s touch. He nips along her collar bone, flicking his tongue out to taste the salty sweetness of her skin. His hand moves along her side, flexing at her hip before slowly moving its’ way to her breast to massage it. His mouth moves unerringly to her chest, finding her nipple hard and erect, waiting for him. Gently he laves her nipple, flicking it gently with his tongue.

What blood there is left in Willow’s body rushes to the surface of her skin, reddening it under Angel’s touch. She is silently horrified at her body’s reaction. She doesn’t want Angel to touch her like that; she doesn’t want him to make her body react this way. ‘Move!’ she silently commands her body, yet it doesn’t obey. Her muscles are stiff and immobile from disuse and abuse at his hands.

Angel trails his tongue along the underside of her breast, along her ribcage and down to her belly button. He nips the skin around it, pulling lightly on it. Fangs slip down, calling for the blood that has rushed to the surface. He bites gently, only licking at the blood as it wells up to the surface. Trailing bites down her abdomen, Angel nips and licks at her, eating her life fluid one lick at a time. 

The fangs retract and Angel places himself lower on her body, between her legs, which he has slid apart to make way for him. He lays a kiss on the soft cinnamon curls down along her slit. Deftly, he flicks his tongue out to taste her as he never has before. The heady scent of her unwilling arousal flows out around him and through him, making him want her more.

With every flick of his tongue, Willow’s muscles twitch and jump involuntarily. Her sighs are ones of pain…and pleasure. She hadn’t known he was skilled at this, but she knows now. Willow wishes that she could have known him in another time, another place. Somewhere where there wasn’t blood, or the dead body of her best friend hanging just feet away. She might even have welcomed him then, but not now. 

Willow’s eyes jerk open in surprise, her mouth open in a silent scream as an unexpected orgasm rips almost painfully through her body. Her muscles tense with the release, straining against the stiffness that holds them still. Her inner muscles flutter and spasm uncontrollably.

Angel slides up her body, reminding Willow that he is still here, that he did that to her. Holding himself above her with one hand, Angel reaches down to unzip his pants and free himself from their confines. Eagerly he places himself at her entrance while leaning down to kiss her lightly on the lips. Upon deepening the kiss, Angel pushes himself slowly into her slick entrance, causing Willow to inhale sharply. He moves gently inside of her, keeping his eyes on hers and placing soft kisses all over her face.

If she could cry she would. This is too close to making love for Willow to handle. She would prefer the roughness of the rape earlier to this soft slowness of sex. She closes her eyes to him, not wanting to see that look on his face, that look of caring and love he has suddenly begun to display to her. ‘It’s just another form of torture,’ she tells herself, as her inner walls begin to tighten in the oncoming of another orgasm.

Whispering endearments, and sweet nothings to her, Angel moves in and out of her, coaxing her to release. He apologizes for being rough earlier, apologizes for being mean and crude. 

“You deserve better, Willow, you always deserved better” Angel says in a consoling whisper of enjoyment. His own release creeps up along his spine, tightening things deep inside of him, and her.

Rearing back, Angel plunges inside of her one last time as he spills into her and bites into her neck. He drinks in her release, her life blood, her essence. He wants all of her that he can have, wants to melt into her.

Pulling free, he lays contentedly next to her, cradling her body in an almost possessive embrace. Thoughtfully, Angel pulls the covers over them and settles down to sleep.

\----------

Willow can’t move, can’t speak, and can’t even cry the tears that she so desperately wishes to. Angel sleeps quietly next to her oblivious to her stressful gasps for air, and the erratic flutter of her heart. He doesn’t know he took too much blood, put her through more then her body can handle.

Panic-stricken, Willow gasps for air that isn’t reaching her lungs. She tries to move her arms to grasp at where her heart feels like it will beat out of her chest. She knows she is dying, and there is nothing she can do. She can’t even wake her tormentor. She just lays there dying, helpless and alone. Willow mouths the words ‘I’m sorry,’ to the long dead Buffy before she closes her eyes…and fades away.


	11. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Two figures creep through the dusty, daylit mansion. They are searching for their friends, who haven’t made it home yet. Armed with stakes, crosses, and swords they make their way through old rooms long abandoned by their occupants. Nothing escapes these two, so intent are they on finding their friends. 

Noticing a stairwell leading down, the older of the two motions that they should head down and investigate. By the light of a small flashlight, they pick their way quietly downstairs. Looking in behind the door on the left, they notice nothing hidden in the small room. The right door opens quietly as they move in. Searching with the light, they see that part of the wall juts out just a bit. It’s nothing like old brickwork, but more like a hidden doorway. Nodding to each other, they turn off the light and pull on the door.

Quietly it opens, revealing a large room illuminated only by a fading candle. They stop dead in their tracks at the scene laid out before them. A young blonde female hangs nude and limp on a cross, dry blood caked over every inch of her body save for her arms. They hear a creaking noise off to their right and they quickly turn, ready to fight. What they see brings gasps of pain and surprise from the both of them. A dark vampire lays half clothed on a bed, cradling a slight redhead.

The younger man runs towards the bed, stake in hand, and yells, “What have you done?!”

Angel hears the scream and turns wide eyed to see Xander running at him with a stake, and Giles right behind him. Standing up, he opens his mouth to say something, anything to get the boy to stop, but it is useless. This is too sudden. Quickly he blocks the stake aimed for his heart, twisting the arm and making Xander drop the stake in pain.

“Angelus,” Giles says in astonishment.

“No!” Angel yells turning yellow eyes to Giles.

“What have you done?” Xander asks again, straining against Angel.

“You, how could you?” Angel asks, turning to him. “You let her kill me, send me to hell! You didn’t tell her Willow had done the spell. _You_ sentenced me to hell with a soul!”

Angel’s mind is a whirlwind of emotions, his focus moving from events in hell, to Buffy’s death, to his apology to Willow, and now to these two confronting him. He knows he’s no longer in hell, but he can’t help the rage that boils up inside of him. He remembers what Buffy told him. Xander hadn’t done as he was told; instead, he’d sealed Angel’s fate and told Buffy to ‘kick his ass’.

Giles stood there thunderstruck by the revelations. He knew Xander hadn’t liked Angel, but to send him to hell with a soul was more then the Watcher thought Xander capable of.

“Angel,” Giles says, trying to soothe the obviously out of control vampire. “Now look, I’m sure…I’m sure he didn’t mean it like that.”

“Yes I did!” Xander yells, balling up his free fist. He takes a swing at Angel who blocks it. Angel throws a punch of his own, landing it on Xander’s jaw. The boy spins from the impact and lands on the floor in a heap of tangled limps, his head turned at an odd angle. Angel just stands there looking down on the mangled body with disgust and a bit of surprise. He didn’t know he hit him that hard. It all happened so fast. 

“What have you done?” Giles asks, using the same words Xander had said only moments ago. He falls to his knees at the boys limp body, crying for him. Rage courses through him, causing him to stand up and pull the sword he has sheathed at his back.

“I…I,” stammers Angel. He doesn’t know what to say.

Standing up, Giles slices upward with the sword, trying to cut at Angel. But Angel sees the movement and backs away. With a roar of anger Giles charges at Angel. Dodging the sword, Angel uses Giles’ momentum to send him sailing into the table in the middle of the room. Giles hits his head on the corner, falling to the floor with a gash on his head.

Angel walks over to stand above the unconscious man. Blood pours from the wound on his head, running in dark red rivulets to the floor and pooling. Without a backwards glance, Angel moves to the bed to check on Willow. He is sure that the noise would have awakened her. But he finds her still and cold where he has left her. She has been dead for some time. Shaking his head in disbelief, Angel steps away from the bed. 

“No,” Angel says to the silence. “No, not Willow. Oh God please not Willow.”

In an eerie echo of Giles, Angel drops to his knees in grief, crying over Willow’s body. There is nothing left for him now. No one left to apologize to, no one left to hold and cry away his sins with, no one left to understand him.

\----------

Angel walks solemnly up the stairs from the basement. Blood is drying on his hands, on his chest, in his hair. Step by step he walks, the afternoon quickly fading to evening as he climbs. The air is thick with death, even in the vast living room of the mansion. The entire house reeks of it, of Buffy’s death, of Willow’s death, of Giles’ and Xander’s deaths. All of them, dead and gone forever. 

Standing at the threshold of the mansion, Angel looks out over the small fountain and the brick patio, watching the leaves jump and dance in the wind. The light fades to twilight, casting deep dark shadows on the patio and stairway leading up and out. With a tentative step, Angel walks out of the mansion and up the stairs. With every step he realizes that he wasn’t limited to the mansion, and that his world extends beyond the confines of the stone house.

The world spreads out before Angel as he comes to the top of the stairs. City lights, music, laughter all make their way to his senses. It’s not the screams of hell that he was expecting. It’s Sunnydale. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he has clung to the belief that he was in hell. But that possibility has shattered into so many pieces, along with his heart.

This realization drops him to his knees like a punch to the gut. It forces a scream from deep within him. He cries out in wordless sorrow for what he has done, for the dead in the basement, and for the dead he’s left throughout the centuries.

He hasn’t been in hell, not since the day he’d been dropped onto the cold, stone floor. None of them were demons come for his torture, none of them deserved to die at his hands for wrongs they hadn’t committed. He is the one that deserves to die; he is the one that has committed wrongs that can never be made right, not now.

Aimlessly, Angel roams the semi-deserted streets of Sunnydale in search of his death. He is still clutching the stake that Xander had dropped earlier, wanting to plunge it in his breast himself, but he can’t. He can’t even now. He is weak and needs someone worthy to kill him, dust him.

A familiar smell makes its way through the haze Angel walks through, the smell of leather, cigarettes, and blood. His blood, the blood of the Order of Aurelius. 

“Spike,” Angel whispers. He follows the unmistakable scent through Sunnydale, searching for the one that could plunge the stake in and end it all. End Angel’s suffering and truly send him to the hell he so richly deserves.

A lighter flares in a darkened alleyway and illuminates a profile Angel knows well. The sharp edges of a cheekbone, that glint of bright blue eyes and the platinum blonde hair, all show Angel a face he hasn’t seen since Spike and Drusilla left him that one fateful night. Steeling himself, Angel walks up to Spike and hands him the stake wordlessly.

“What’s all this then?” Spike asks dumbfounded. He looks between the stake and Angel’s haunted eyes.

“Do it,” Angel says, putting his arms behind him and exposing the vulnerable spot on his chest. He closes his eyes and waits for Spike to finish him off. When nothing happens he opens his eyes.

Spike can’t believe what he is hearing. Angel is asking him to dust him, handing him a stake and everything. He’s torn between wanting to get rid of the soul having Angel, and not wanting to kill the vampire who still wears the face of his grand-sire.

“Do it!” Angel yells, grabbing hold of Spike’s jacket lapels and shaking him. 

“Do it yourself!” Spike yells, pushing Angel back away from him.

“I can’t,” he says sorrowfully. “I can’t.”

“Why the bloody hell not?” Spike asks surprised. “And why would you want to do it in the first place? Are you that big of a Pouf that you can’t handle being bested by the Slayer? Still moping because she got the best of you, eh?”

“No, you don’t understand. I…I…,” Angel stammers, not able to voice the atrocities that lie dead in the basement of the Crawford Street mansion. He blinks furiously at tears that threaten to fall, as if he hasn’t cried enough, as if he will never be able to cry enough.

Spike looks at Angel with a critical eye and sniffs the air, sniffs at Angel. “What the bloody hell have you done?” Spike asks his voice low and soft, almost awed. He can smell sex and the blood of the Slayer…and of Willow.

“I thought…but it wasn’t real, or it was too real. I can’t, Spike. Please, just, please do it,” Angel says. His head hurts, his heart hurts, and worst of all…his soul hurts. It aches for them all, for Willow and Buffy who were too young, and for Giles and Xander in all their foolhardy bravery, and even for Spike and Drusilla who were tortured at the hands of Angelus. There’s not enough water in the world to wash their blood off his hands. There’s no hole deep enough to store him away from everything, to keep his filthy hands off of it all.

“Look,” Angel says, stepping towards Spike. He grabs the hand with the stake and places it over his heart. “Just. Do. It.”

Spike stands there motionless and he almost feels sorry for Angel, that he has been reduced to this. He remembers the glory days of Angelus, when he would never be reduced to begging for someone to end his unlife. 

Impatient, Angel grabs at Spike’s lapels and shakes him, daring him to do it. Telling Spike he doesn’t have the guts to do what he had so often threatened. Angel tells him this is finally his chance to do away with him.

“Please!” he roars into the night, giving Spike one last shake.

The plunge is accidental, but it doesn’t miss its mark. Angel’s eyes and mouth widen in surprise as he feels the stake stab expertly through his chest and into his un-beating heart. The dissolving of his being starts slowly, and he can feel each cell of his body start to dry up and whither into so much dust. He looks down at Spike and mouths the words ‘Thank you’ before the last vestiges of his body blow away into the night.

Spike stands there shocked and unmoving. The stake still held firmly in his hand. He watches silently as particles of what was once Angel float away carried by the wind. Tears fall, running down his cheek and mixing with the dust on his face, leaving dirty streaks in their wake. He drops the stake and it clatters loudly in the silence of the night, bouncing on the pavement. Slowly, Spike turns and walks away into the night.

**~End~**


End file.
